Precious
by Arc Pheonix
Summary: How Grey Worm learned the word, 'precious.' (Inspired by a bit of dialogue as he's apologizing to Missandei for seeing her naked in season 4's episode, The Mountain and the Viper). Squint for JorahxDany feels.


Jorah Mormont was in the armory inspecting freshly forged weapons when he heard the distinct accented voice of his Unsullied Commander from behind him, "Jorah the Andal."

He strengthened his grip, forearms flexing as he gave the broad sword a test swing, sampling its weight. Satisfied with the motion, he placed the steel back on the rack holding a dozen other similar copies before shifting his attention to Grey Worm. "Torgo Nudho," the Valyrian name rolled roughly off his tongue; he was still adjusting to the vowels of the Khaleesi's mother language.

"I need speak." As Jorah grappled with his Valyrian, Grey Worm was doing just the same with the common tongue.

"Yes," Jorah spoke, before attempting the Valyrian translation. "—_kessi_." They were not alone in the armory; members of Unsullied and the Second Sons were there, testing the weapons as well. Conversation hummed in different dialects, and the sound of steel regularly cracked through the air, punctuated with either approval or criticism. There was a loud clatter when a Second Sons archer fumbled twirling a short spear intended for Unsullied use. '_You impress all the ladies like that?' _One had jibed,and Jorah overheard the usual swearing and scuffling that would follow such a comment.

Ignoring the typical discipline of sellswords, curious eyes inspected Grey Worm's. He was a bit surprised the young man had approached him. He respected the Unsullied Commander, of course. A great warrior, and as tough as they come, who showed unquestionable loyalty to their Queen. They had fought and bled together on the streets of Yunkai, and would likely do the same again on Her Grace's quest to take back the Seven Kingdoms.

The only barrier found between them was that of language. An elephant strutting into the armory touting enemy banners would draw less attention than the conversation they were about to have.

"Need speak I and—" The former slave's lips pressed together when he failed to grasp the right words. "Nah I." Jorah's head tilted, his eyes squinting as he listened patiently. Others in the room began listening as well. That seemed to bother Grey Worm. "_Ao," _His tone became as stiff as his posture when he reverted to his familiar tongue_, "Mērī_."

The curious interaction of broken dialects was bending the ears of those in the room who spoke either one language or the other. The Meereen humidity that had long settled into the room offered no comfort, leaving any who were present pleading to the gods for the sweet mercy of a breeze. Hairline glistening over a creased forehead, worn yellow fabric clung to Jorah's chest as he considered the word,_ 'ao.'_ If he remembered correctly, '_ao' _meant'you_._'His mouth parted a silent question as his mind tumbled over the meaning of '_mērī.'_

Failing at interpretation, he studied Grey Worm's body language instead. A cursory glance revealed a rigid posture, one fist taut while the other suffocated his helmet against his side, and a flared nose breathing air that hardly expanded his ribcage. Furrowed brows shadowed eyes that determinedly studied the grains of dirt amongst an unswept floor. The weighted attention of those present made his neck strain to keeping his head upright. Jorah realized he had never seen Grey Worm express nerves before. He put two-and-two together.

"You want to speak in private?"

A quick nod, "_Kessa."_

"_Kessa_?" He repeated, thinking the 'yes' in Valyrian was _kessi._

"Yes, _kessa_." Grey Worm clarified. "_Mērī."_

Jorah's mind sputtered on the latter word, lips pulling at air as translation failed him. He found himself desperately wishing that either Missandei or Daenerys were there to help. Noticing the knight's struggle, Grey Worm tried again, putting a valiant effort into each foreign syllable of the tongue the Westerosi man had grown up with.

"Private speak I and—" His mouth hung open, words failing to materialize, before his head rose, and dark pearl eyes landed pointedly on Jorah's.

It was an overt hint. "Me?" Jorah pointed to himself.

Tension released from Grey Worm's forehead. He spoke more confidently, "Private speak I and me."

_Oh, _Jorah's eyes dawned. "I and _you_," he corrected, finger tapping his chest and stating, "I, Jorah," and then pointing to Grey Worm, "_ao, _you."

Dark eyes studied the gesture, and frowned at the familiar word. His jaw muscles protruded when he grated, "Private speak I and _you_."

Jorah shifted his feet. _Missandei was far better at this_, he chided himself, feeling about as awkward as Grey Worm appeared frustrated. Nevertheless, he turned, and with his usual sparse words, dismissed those in the armory who had become a bit too curious about the conversation occurring between the Queen's two high-ranking servants. As they filtered out, so did some of Grey Worm's tension. The language barrier, however, remained looming between them like the dense and sticky midday Meereen air. It was odd that, considering this known hurdle, Grey Worm had still chosen to seek him out.

For a conversation. About what? Was it tactics? Military? Jorah was never known for idle chatter; silences suited him just fine. Whatever it was, it had to be important, and it was going to be incredibly difficult for the two to communicate with each other without some kind of outside help. His fingers tugged on the strings of fabric around his knuckles that aided his sword grip and, at times, distracted him from his nerves.

It wasn't working. "Should I send for Missandei to—"

"—_Daor_." His response struck like a jab, before his eyes lowered shamefully, tone softening, "Nah."

Jorah, surprised, stopped fiddling with the thin cloth at his wrist. "No?" Grey Worm was acting odd. He had thought the Unsullied Commander and the Queen's handmaiden had gotten along. She was teaching him the common tongue, after all. She'd even helped Jorah with a few Valyrian words and phrases, although he was a long way before he could truly recite them with any confidence. Daenerys would educate him at times in passing, as well. He'd falter with the words and vowels often, and his stumbling over the letters of her tongue would often amuse the Khaleesi. He didn't mind that. The look on her face when he once corrected her Dothraki pronunciations, however, was about as impressionable as the day she emerged out of the burning pyre. "What is it?" He asked Grey Worm, and he plucked the few Valyrian words he knew and stitched them together to form, 'what is wrong?' "_Skori iksis pirta?"_

Grey Worm's eyes slipped back up to his, and then flicked between them. Jorah thought he did the language justice until then. "Skoros_ iksis pirta_."

"Right," the knight's shoulders constricted. He was constantly mixing up the Valyrian terms for 'what, when, why,' and 'how.' _They were too damn similar_. He took a deep breath, chest expanding before exhaling, "Skoros_ iksis pirta_?" At least it seemed he got the latter part right. Grey Worm didn't respond immediately, and Jorah's hand scraped his jaw, the stubble friction not quite distracting him from the awkwardness between them. "I apologize for my Valyrian."

"Apologize?" Grey Worm didn't recognize that word, the syllables spilling awkwardly along his tongue.

Jorah tried simplifying, "To say sorry." Grey Worm nodded, but his strained expression showed feuding internal thoughts that Jorah could only guess at. The knight's concern grew, "What is it, Grey Worm?"

Dark eyes downcast, he chewed his lip before responding. "I need speak sorry."

"To me?"

"Nah—" Grey Worm started, before correcting, "—_no_." The young man was struggling with more than just words. "To Missandei of Naath. I—" He paused, swallowing, miserable eyes retreating to the floor as a woeful tone emerged, "I harm her."

"Harm?" Jorah wasn't expecting that. "How?" Grey Worm's prolonged silence made him quickly repeat the question in Valyrian, "_Skoridoso?_"

Words appeared to be stuck in Grey Worm's throat, before he heard a very, very timid reply. "_Skor—_ky_—doso_."

The Westerosi knight wished he could take a sword through that damned language barrier. "Grey Worm, _skorkydoso_?"

"_Nyke jūndan rȳ zirȳla tolī bōsa_." What Grey Worm mumbled went completely over Jorah's head. Yet the Unsullied warrior's tone was clear and contrite. Conflicted eyes discovered Jorah's confusion, before they foraged the floor to find the common words. "I see too long."

"You… see?"

"_Ondoso se qelbar_."

"_Se qelbar_…" Jorah had heard that word before.

"_Se Shahazadhan_," Grey Worm clarified.

Jorah's eyes clicked, recognizing the name that belonged to a particular body of water that emptied into Slaver's Bay. "The river?" He asked, and Grey Worm nodded. _What about the river? _Jorah wondered, _and what does _ondoso _mean?_ His mind began to worry in a million different directions of what Grey Worm had meant when he said _harm_. He could never imagine Grey Worm actually hurting Missandei. Perhaps he was misusing the word, and meant something else? But that didn't explain the weight contrition bearing down on the young man's shoulders.

"Unsullied…" he struggled, not knowing the proper common word, "_rāenābagon_… after training."

Jorah's mind chiseled away at the meaning. _The river, Unsullied, and _something_ after training…_ He thought of what people usually used the river on the edge of Meereen for, and it was _this _question combined with _that look _on Grey Worm's face when comprehension struck Jorah with the all the subtlety of a spiked mallet. He blanched.

"She there." Grey Worm's face, often carved to be emotionless, revealed its cracks. "I see Missandei."

_He… saw her_. "Bathing?" Grey Worm nodded, lips a firm line and never making eye contact. _Seven fucking hells, _this was not the conversation Jorah imagined he'd be having. "And you… stared?" Grey Worm did not understand, so Jorah rephrased, fingers gesturing to his eyes. "You looked? Too long?" Grey Worm swallowed painfully, and nodded. Jorah chose that moment to breathe very, very deeply. "And... she saw you?"

Grey Worm didn't need to nod. _Of_ _course_ she saw him. That was exactly why he was here, looking like a kicked puppy. Jorah could understand why most men would have the urge to ogle a naked woman bathing, but Grey Worm—he was Unsullied, and Unsullied men—they didn't have—they were—they couldn't—

A fretful hand palmed its way across his stubble and down along his neck. Jorah was _very_ unprepared for this conversation. He wondered—and then tried not to wonder—why Grey Worm would watch if he didn't have—he realized didn't actually know _what_ the masters had left the Unsullied with, and unlike Daario, he felt no inclination to actually _ask_. Grey Worm, in spite of his condition, still somehow managed to feel attraction. It was a victory for the former slave against the masters who tried to control him; it was no victory for Jorah to try and explain a man's carnal urges to an Unsullied soldier who had never experienced them before. That is what Grey Worm felt, yes? He didn't know unless he… asked.

_Dammit._

Finding the right Valyrian words were like pulling teeth, and he did not know the foreign term for the word 'stare.' Rubbing his brow, as if that action would stir the words he needed, he hesitantly cobbled together the question, 'why did you see?' and hoped Grey Worm would understand what he was trying to ask. "_Skoros gōntan ao ūndegon_?"

Grey Worm's dull eyes sharpened with incredible offense so quickly that Jorah knew he must of picked his words horribly wrong. He backpedaled, before realizing with some mortification that he may have mixed up '_why_ did you see' with '_what_ did you see.'

He wanted to crawl into a hole. "No, um…" He shook his head, wincing, "…_Skori_?" He guessed, eyes pleading.

The Unsullied's glacial glare started to melt once he realized that Jorah was merely failing at translation, and not in actual manners. He then graciously provided the words the man had been looking for, emphasizing the particular term Jorah had gotten uncomfortably wrong. _"_Skoro syt_ gōntan ao urnēbagon." _

"_Skoro syt_…" Jorah began, and the mental floundering and loss of patience he had on the latter few words made him wave the white flag on his Valyrian. "Why did you watch her?"

Grey Worm did not have an answer. Lips pursed and forehead lined, conflicted eyes kept bouncing back and forth from the same two tiles on the floor. The man had understood the question; he simply could not provide an answer to it.

Witnessing his struggle, Jorah tried another approach. "She's been giving you lessons, in the common tongue." His words were clear, slow, and calming. "They've been going well?"

Notably relieved to have a question he could answer, the Unsullied warrior nods. "I like she lessons," he stated with certainty.

Jorah didn't correct his pronoun usage. "And you like her?"

Grey Worm missed the subtext in Jorah's question. The praise he offers is painfully genuine, "Missandei of Naath is good person, good teacher, good to Queen and Unsullied."

"She is." Jorah agreed. He did not miss the way Grey Worm's strict features had softened at her name. "You care for her?" he asked, and Grey Worm's non-reply made him pry further. "Have feelings?"

His face loses all its softness, and piercing eyes deliver a swift response forged from iron, "Unsullied feel _nothing_."

Jorah intended no disrespect with the question. He knew the Unsullied considered any kind of emotional feeling a weakness; they were trained from birth to think this way. And yet they were still innately human, no matter what the masters had said or done to them. "But you want to apologize." It was not a question.

Iron forged eyes suddenly brewed confliction, as Grey Worm did not know how to handle this internal struggle. "Yes. She is…" He was at loss for words. Even if he had been fluent in every language of the world, he would not have been able to find the right way to express what it was that he was feeling. A raw emotion Jorah knew all to well unfurled from dark irises, and he averted his gaze as silver hair slipped unbiddenly across his mind, his chest budding a familiar ache.

"Precious to you." He found himself saying.

"Precious?"

"She is…" The word was foreign to Grey Worm, and Jorah suddenly found the floor tiles beneath him fascinating. "Someone you can't bear to see hurt. Someone worth protecting." He paused and recomposed himself before answering Grey Worm's steady gaze. "No matter the cost to you."

The former slave's tone became critical. "Cost?" He had heard this word many times before. Given his upbringing had labeled him as property, there were no positive correlations with it.

"Not coin, or money." Jorah clarified, not wanting Grey Worm to think of the term 'cost' in the monetary sense. "You'd sacrifice your own comfort and more to keep her from any harm. You'd take her pain for her, if you could." Grey Worm seemed to half-understand, but his brow still bent at the idea of 'cost.' Jorah tried thinking of another way to explain it. "You would… _pay_ not with money, but with pain. You'd allow yourself to hurt, to _pay_ that cost, for her to be safe and happy." Grey Worm's brow grew contemplative. "She is special," Jorah added, "Irreplaceable."

Grey Worm's eyes flickered uncertainly as he struggled with the last word, "Irreplaceable?"

Jorah's chest rose and fell slowly as he exhaled, hands wringing as he scanned the room, grasping for a simple explanation to define the word in a way that Grey Worm could follow. His sword and scabbard had been placed on a table earlier when he initially came into the armory, and his fingers struggled without having the familiar comfort of his pommel to ground him. His wandering eyes landed on a rack behind Grey Worm, and what it possessed gave him an idea. "Take your spear," he moved forward and reached behind the other man to procure the long weapon, trying to recall the Valyrian term. "Your _egros_, into battle—"

"_Egrio_." Jorah stared blankly, mouth dangling mid-sentence. Grey Worm nodded towards the spear, _"Egrio_," he repeated. He gestured at a nearby sword, "_Egros_," and then gripped the handle of a dagger that clung by his waist. "_Egry_."

"Right," Gods help him_, _Jorah was a damn long way from fluency. "Take your _egrio_," he twirled said object, "into battle." He then thrust forward, striking air. "And you _clash_ with your enemies," Grey Worm watched as Jorah dropped the weapon, the loud metallic clatter echoing beyond the confines of the room and past the hallway. "Your spear breaks," his free hands emphasize a snapping motion, and he reaches again towards the rack. "You pick up another. Your spear is replaceable. You have not changed from losing it." Jorah held the duplicate weapon in front of him as a message rippled behind blue irises. "But people who are precious to you; they _change_ you. You are a better man when they are around, and less when they are gone. You can replace a sword, a spear, or a shield." Jorah placed the spear he held back on the rack. "You cannot replace a Missandei of Naath," he picked up the one on the floor. "As you cannot replace our glorious Queen," he returned the weapon to its holding place before finding Grey Worm's attentive eyes. "And you cannot replace a Grey Worm of the Unsullied."

The young warrior appeared reflective, and studied the long row of identical spears, all of which were sharp and finely forged weapons, each indistinguishable from the other. "Unsullied will stand if Grey Worm fall," his response was reflexive and mechanic. While Grey Worm knew the value of freedom, the value of something else just as significant still eluded him.

"Another Unsullied, yes," Jorah nodded. "But not another Grey Worm."

Young eyes found Jorah's and settled there before drifting away to process what had been said. Unsullied fought as a unit, not as individuals. Grey Worm had never before considered himself an individual. _'Always Unsullied,'_ he would say, but the Weserosi knight was implying that individuality was just as important as one's freedom. It gave the young warrior a great deal to ponder about. "Missandei of Naath," he said, contemplative, and decided to test the new word. "She is replaceable."

Jorah's eyes widened. "_Irr—_eplaceable," he said quickly, as Grey Worm was oblivious to how badly that mistake could be interpreted. Jorah's teeth nervously tugged on his lower lip, _he almost had it_. But he didn't want to be responsible for creating that potential blunder. "Perhaps precious would be a better word to focus on?"

Grey Worm attended every syllable, "Pres—ee—us?"

"Precious," Jorah annunciated slowly.

"Precious."

Jorah's brief smile confirmed he got it right, "_Kessi_."

The ruminative tension that settled in Grey Worm's forehead slackened when he corrected him, _"Kessa."_

"Right, yes," Jorah's long sigh was self-deprecatingly, "_Kessa_." While Grey Worm didn't smile, pearl eyes glinted in a way that strongly hinted at it. He was relieved, likely, that he wasn't the only one struggling with a foreign language. It bonded them in a way neither man would of expected. "You want to apologize to her?"

"Yes. In common tongue."

"You want my advice?" Grey Worm didn't know the word, 'advice,' so Jorah tried another, "Help?"

The Unsullied soldier nodded, his chin receding to his chest afterwards.

Jorah noted his averted gaze. "Look her in the eye, when you say it. She will see your sincerity." Dark irises flickered a question at the last word. "Truth," Jorah supplanted, hands clasping in front of him. "Honesty." He saw the man's shoulders fold inwards. "She is kind. I am sure she will forgive you."

His remorse plain to see, the Unsullied warrior wasn't as certain of this as the knight appeared to be. But he did look a sight better than he when first entered in the armory. "_Kirimvose_, Jorah the Andal," he said, before suddenly straightening as bronze eyes sought his, "Thank you."

Jorah nodded, a soft encouraging smile reaching the lines around his eyes. It was a rare sight to see on his often-serious features. It lasted briefly, and he noted Grey Worm's still planted feet. He then gifted advice that, he would learn in a few terrible hours, he should have heeded himself a long time ago. "You shouldn't wait too long, to tell her. To apologize."

Grey Worm's expression boiled contention, dark eyes a delicate confluence of apprehension and determination. Jaw muscles anticipating his task, he flexed his fingers and he nodded once before he turned to leave, resolve heard echoing in every footstep he took towards the exit.

_Unsullied do not feel fear_, Jorah remembered the slave masters saying as he watched Grey Worm leave. Seeing the set of determined shoulders turn out of sight down the hallway, he allowed himself a rebelling smile. _Unsullied do not feel lust, either_.

The reverberating sound of striding footsteps reaching the stairs had stopped abruptly. "Ser Barristan."

Jorah's smile dropped.

"Grey Worm," came the reply.

Grey Worm's steps resumed before the quickened thuds faded away. After a pause, where Jorah's breathing had apparently stopped, impending new footfalls of heavier boots teasingly sounded down the empty stairway. Jorah saw Ser Barristan's shadow grow and lengthen before he saw the man turn the corner himself. With thinning white hair framed by a sagely dense beard, and a half lip fixed remarkably upwards, his soft and insightful brown eyes found Jorah's blinking ones and settled there.

For a great amount of time.

Jorah's weight shifted from one hip to the other. "Ser Barristan."

"Ser Jorah." The older knight's expression, and keen gaze, never changed. Jorah, reticent, wondered how long it would take for the other man to blink.

Too long, apparently. His throat felt dusty. "You… heard all that?"

Ser Barristan nodded, smirking stare merciless.

Jorah's eyes slumped, his shoulders deflating under the other man's scrutiny. A good-hearted laugh bounced off the armory walls as a self-conscious heat reached the tips of Jorah's ears. "You like eavesdropping on private conversations, Ser Barristan?"

The knight managed to reduce his laughter to a chuckle, his steps jauntily traversing the room. "Hardly, Valyrian tends to go over my head. I hadn't intended to stop by the armory," he admitted, a hand gesturing upwards at the high ceilings. "But the acoustics here did you no favors." Amused eyes swept towards the younger knight and stopped abruptly. "Don't look so mortified, Ser Jorah, you did remarkably well, considering." The knight in question stiltedly began collecting his sword belt and scabbard. "Valyrian is a complicated language, not even to mention Dothraki, yet you seemed to have become well-versed in that, regardless." The taciturn man fixated on unraveling his leather belt. "Dare I say, however, I need to hear you speak it more often before I can fairly judge your abilities with the common tongue."

Jorah's ministrations slowed as he side-eyed the man, before returning to his task. Working the leather around his waist, he allowed a stubborn silence to be his rebuttal.

Ser Barristan's mouth curved gently, but he was determined to pry at least _one_ monosyllabic word out of him. "Although, I imagine the topic of conversation was a bit more challenging to navigate than the language barrier."

Jorah sighed close-mouthed as blue eyes burned in Ser Barristan's direction.

His teasing eased. "Honestly, I'm glad he talked to you. From what I've seen, Ser Jorah, you are a respectable man, far better than your reputation in Westeros implies. I don't always agree with your advice to our Queen, but I cannot deny that you have served her well, and did so against great odds." Jorah's hands slowed its movements on the belt at his waist, and the conversation leaned back towards Grey Worm. "Frankly, not knowing a word of Valyrian besides '_dracarys_,' I couldn't have helped him. Not that I pretend to be an expert on such a topic." Brown eyes commiserated with blue ones. "I don't believe you'd consider yourself to be an expert, either. But Grey Worm had two options in front of him he could go to for help; you, or Daario. I believe he chose wisely."

Jorah grunted at the mention of the sellsword. Their eyes met a moment, and the equal acknowledgment of that disaster being averted raised a subtle smile out of both of them. Jorah's attention returned inward as fingers found the tip of his belt and slid it through its destined loop.

Ser Barristan scanned the rack of spears off his shoulder. "I thought I had noticed something sparking between those two." Calloused fingers admired the fine workmanship. "Good for Grey Worm, to find his heart and learn how to feel. Love is…" His eyes glinted as his hand retracted, "a _precious_ thing."

Air expelled Jorah's lungs as he gave his last belt loop an irritably strong tug. The familiar weight of his sword along his hip grounded him, his antsy fingers latching onto the comforting shape of his pommel as his stance brooded impatience.

Barristan's hands dangled freely by his side, unperturbed, as he walked about the room. "We are lucky to have him," he continued, "an intelligent young man, a fine soldier, an incredible warrior, with a talent for leading." Jorah found himself agreeing, his eyes distant as he reflected on Unsullied soldier's long journey to the present, and thus he missed the insinuation layered in Ser Barristan's gaze. "A sound tactical mind, completely devoted to his Queen," his tone hardened. "And knows to do his duty in order to best serve her."

The heat grew notably heavier in the room as Jorah processed what he just heard, and how it was said. Mouth suddenly dry, his bare blue eyes turned and were held hostage under admonishing browns, and the implication polished on those steely irises made Jorah stagger.

_'And knows to do his duty in order to best serve her.'_

Jorah was stunned. At some point in the conversation, Ser Barristan had stopped talking about Grey Worm. He spoke of love, he spoke of duty, and he spoke of _what was best for the Queen_. The scalding gaze seared straight through him, and Jorah knew his armor did not reach his eyes. The naked blue depths betrayed him, revealing every thought, conflict, and emotion that spoke the truth his lips would never dare utter. Vulnerable, as his eyes always were, his chest constricted as he remembered a contentious moment with the very same man that stood in front of him.

_'If we are truly her loyal servants, we will do whatever needs to be done. No matter the cost. No matter our pride.'_

No matter our _heart_.

With each rib a noose around his lungs and knuckles flaring white on his pommel, he willed himself to breath. Deeply. In, and out. He fought as emotions dared to strangle him.

He was angry. Ser Barristan saw his chest rise and fall. But the anger wasn't from exposing the raw nerve of Jorah's hidden desires; it was the damning implication layered beneath them. Ser Baristan was not a spiteful man; he did not enjoy doing this. The two were not close friends, and often contested during council meetings, but both had grown to respect each other, although at times begrudgingly. His warning insinuation was derived not out of malice, but out of necessity. For their Queen. Because, whatever their differences, they both shared a common purpose; to faithfully serve their Queen.

He did not doubt Ser Jorah's devotion. He questioned the knight's ability to sort his heart from his duty.

The younger knight's jaw grinded at the idea that Ser Barristan thought he was foolish enough to act on selfish desires and sacrifice his duty. He swore an oath. He did not make it lightly. Broken vows led to the heartbreaking exile from his home, his sins tainting the family name and that shame burdened his cracked soul everywhere he went. When his nightmares weren't plagued by war, they reveled in the depths of his guilt, always ending with him on his knees pleading incoherently under his father's long shadow, for failing him, for being a terrible son, for letting down his family, and failing his people. All that guilt, all that shame, all those terrible decisions he committed out of love for a woman who didn't even love him back…

Jorah learned his lesson. At least, his mind did. His heart was stubborn. He would always be a man who _felt_. But he would not be a fool again. No, to be a fool would be to fail _her_. He could never to that to _her_. He could never have her look at him the way his father's disappointed face haunts him his sleep. Through exile, and pain, and rejection, he learned his lesson. He had a purpose, now, and it was with her. He knew his place, and his place was by her side. Not in her heart. Not in her bed.

Daario was whom she had chosen to take to her bed.

He remembered reaching for her, once.

_'You are too young to be so—"_

_She turned sharply from his hand. 'And you are too familiar.'_

Jorah knew his place. It was very clear. He vowed to serve her, obey her, to die for her, if need be. He meant every word. He believed in her, with everything he had, _he believed in her_. Her just cause, her rightful claim, her gentle heart…

Gods, did he love her. He hadn't meant to hand her his heart along with those weathered books that day. But her eyes found his, those hazel slivers warmly embraced by exquisite blue-green hues a siren's call his foolish heart heard loud and clear as it leapt into oblivion.

He'd given her his heart. He'd given her his sword. She had his counsel, admiration, and devotion. And she'd given him what he yearned for the most since he left home; purpose. A just, honorable purpose. A chance to atone for past sins. A chance to return home, and of discovering a new one by serving at her side.

_'Blood of my blood.'_

He'd give her everything, if he could. Whatever she'd ask. Because she was precious to him. Because she was worth it. Even if what she asked of him—or hadn't asked of him—hurt. Being by her side was enough. He told himself it was enough. He did not deserve the honor to be by her side, knight or otherwise. But here he stood, and he would not fail her. He'd rather fall on his sword.

Ser Barristan watched the glaciers form in Jorah's gaze, his voice dripping icicles that the Meereen heat couldn't touch. "We all will do our duty, whatever it may cost us, to serve our Rightful Queen."

The other knight knew he had touched a nerve. Eyes apologetic, and, worse, _sympathetic_, also revealed that he felt he had no other choice but to do so. "Ser Jorah—"

Jorah didn't let him finish. "If you'll excuse me, Ser Barristan," he turned on his heel, "there is work to be done. Send for me if there is another council meeting." He strode out, never looking back.

Ser Jorah Mormont had escaped. For a little while. He would wonder if Grey Worm had talked with Missandei, and how it had went. The next time he would see Ser Barristan, the man would be holding a pardon with a broken Hand of the King seal on it.

**Valyrian Translations**

_Ao _(You)

_Mērī _(Alone)

_Kessa _(Yes)

_Daor _(No)

_Skori iksis pirta? _(When is wrong)

_Skoros iksis pirta_? (What is wrong)

_Skorkydoso? _(How)

_Nyke jūndan rȳ zirȳla tolī bōsa_. (I looked at her too long)

_Ondoso se qelbar_. (By the river)

_Se Shahazadhan _(The Shahazadhan = name of the river in Meereen)

_Rāenābagon_ (Wash = in this case, used as bathe)

_Skoros gōntan ao ūndegon_? (What did you see)

_Skori_? (When)

_Skoro syt gōntan ao urnēbagon? _(Why did you watch)

_Egrio _(Spear)

_Egros _(Sword)

_Egry _(Knife)

_Kirimvose _(Thank you)


End file.
